


Trial and Error

by sundayrain26



Series: Cherished [2]
Category: Hawkeye (Comics), Marvel Cinematic Universe, The Avengers (Marvel Movies)
Genre: Alpha Phil Coulson, Alpha/Beta/Omega Dynamics, American Sign Language, Coping, Deaf Clint Barton, Established Relationship, Explosion, Lip reading, M/M, Medical, Omega Clint Barton, hearing loss, mission
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-07-29
Updated: 2015-07-29
Packaged: 2018-04-11 21:26:04
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,404
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4452953
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sundayrain26/pseuds/sundayrain26
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A mission mishap leaves Clint and Phil to deal with a new hurdle in their relationship.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Trial and Error

**Author's Note:**

> This piece is set before [Learning Curve](http://archiveofourown.org/works/4138329) and (most likely) after [King of Snark](http://archiveofourown.org/works/3923881).
> 
> So begins the tale of how our dear Clint lost his hearing and how he and Phil adapt to cope with it. Featuring Clint teaching Phil to sign.
> 
> Rating is subject to change. I tend to write sex. So. Yeah.

The flight back is the longest flight of his life. Only a couple hours in reality, but he spends it ordering everyone to move quicker, damn it, and standing guard over Clint while they accomplish what little can be done for him aboard a quinjet. It doesn't look great, really, but he supposes it could be worse. It can always be worse.

Clint, the kind soul he is, had been helping a few civilians out of the area, the mission all but wrapped up when an explosion set the ground shaking and took out their coms. Some sort of modified bomb, designed to be particularly concussive. Precisely what happened after isn’t entirely clear. He vaguely remembers leading out a recovery team the second they were certain that there would be no more explosions - it took a startling amount of restraint for Phil not to run out sooner. It took some doing, picking through the rubble, but they located Clint’s last known location. It wasn’t far from there that they spotted him. The sight of Clint, battered and bloody, curled around a kid who couldn’t be any older than twelve, made his heart run cold. The kid seemed a bit better off, though he may have been bleeding from the ears as well, Phil can’t recall. Looking back on it, he’s proud of and incensed at the brave, stubborn man for trying to protect the kid. His sense of self-preservation certainly leaves something to be desired.

\-----

Phil is downright distraught. The last he had seen of Clint, he was.. incoherent at best. Anything he’d been saying had been mumbled and either much too quiet or much too loud and all of it nonsensical. It was an improvement, perhaps, on how they’d found him, ears bleeding and unconscious, but not by much.

He’s paced the room so much, it’s a wonder that he’s not worn through the floor itself. His usually cool, collected front is splintering. Just the tiniest touch and it will certainly shatter. Thankfully everyone has had the sense to leave him the hell alone. Agent or no, they aren’t dumb enough to bother an alpha fretting over his omega.

It’s been too long. Of course, two minutes would have been too long, but the point still stands. He’s getting more frazzled by the second, his face set in stony composure all except a wild look in his eyes. Sparing a glance at his watch, he has to focus for a moment. Clint’s been in there for nearly two hours now, that’s about four and a half hours from the explosion.

The doors swing open and he’s surprised to find Fury walking in with long strides. He tenses up despite the other alpha’s purposefully non-threatening demeanor. “Hey Cheese,” he greets solemnly. “I’ve taken care of what I can for the mission paperwork. There’s just a few things that you’ll need to take care of, but it's not urgent.” Phil nods gratefully, but doesn’t speak. “What’s the news?” he asks, jutting his chin toward the doors leading into medical.

Phil does a one-shouldered shrug, heaving a heavy sigh and running a hand over his face. He pinches at the bridge of his nose before dropping his hand to answer. “Not much yet. Cracked ribs, sprained wrist, concussion. His hearing seems to have been affected. They don’t know if it’s temporary or - “

He’s interrupted by a nurse pushing one of the large, swinging doors open. His attention is immediately diverted.

“Agent Coulson. You can come back now.”

He wastes half a second to look at Nick, taking in his grim face, before wordlessly walking in past the nurse. They’re waylaid by a doctor in the hallway, who brings Phil up to speed on the latest information. They still need further testing on his hearing, but they’ll have to wait until his concussion has begun to improve. He won’t be cleared to discharge for at least a day. Phil has half a mind to thank the doctor before following the nurse the rest of the way to Clint’s room.

Clint’s mostly awake when he walks in, though it takes him a few minutes to realize Phil is there. He seems a bit disoriented, which isn’t really all that surprising taking into account the concussion, paid meds, and hearing loss. It doesn’t make it any easier to witness.

He lowers his face beside Clint’s, his hand ranging over him before settling on his forearm, clear of the bandages covering various cuts and scrapes. “I’m right here, babe,” he babbles nonsense near Clint’s ear before catching himself. Clint can’t hear him. Tears well up in his eyes and he presses a feather light kiss to his cheek instead.

Clint struggles for a moment but makes his eyes focus on Phil’s face. He registers the tears there and his face scrunches up, the hand not attached to his sprained wrist lifting to clumsily touch Phil’s cheek. “ ‘ey. I’m okay,” he slurs slightly, his voice hoarse and quiet.

Phil snorts out a small laugh, welled up tears spilling down his cheeks. Typical Clint. He steadies the man’s hand against his face and turns to press a kiss to it. He eases his arm back down to the bed, but keeps their hands linked. A soft kiss to his forehead and he speaks in clear sight, hoping to convey his intent, “Get some rest.” Clint blinks and drifts off in a state of half awareness.

\-----

When he wakes, actual awake, not half drugged out of his mind, the first thing he notices is the pain in his head. Then he breathes in and there’s pain in his side. Ugh. He cracks his eyes open and tilts his head to look at Phil, asleep in a chair, hand still clasped around his. He regrets the action before he’s even stopped moving, the room spinning and tilting dangerously around him.

Phil stirs, quickly leaning forward when it’s clear that Clint is awake. He takes in the alarming green hue to his skin and grabs the plastic bin on the side table as a precaution. It’s a wise decision because, a moment later, Clint loses the struggle with his stomach and vomits into the bin, his body curling.

Oh and that was rotten, he slumps back against the bed, hissing at the pain lancing through his right side. “Ah, fuck,” he gasps, voice fading off into a groan. He’s aware of Phil moving and the next time he opens his eyes, there’s nurse standing beside him, making him startle. Damnit. He’s starting to think he has the trifecta of injuries here: concussion, broken ribs, no hearing. Two of those could explain some of the cotton-y feeling in his head. He realizes his head is wrapped and his ears are covered. Phil and the nurse are talking over the bed to one another, he can see their mouths moving. The nurse gives him a quick once-over, fiddling with his IV and then leaving.

He has a few minutes in peace and quiet - oh wait, the quiet is there regardless, silly him - before the nurse returns with a doctor. He vaguely recognizes the man as he checks over the taping on his ribs and other various wrappings and bandages. Clint watches the man work before zoning out at the wall.

There’s a tapping at his hand, pulling his attention back. Someone seems to have nicked a small white board and brought it in. He lifts a single eyebrow.

[Rate your pain?]

What a question. He wants to shrug but thinks better of it. The less moving the better. “Five?” He hates this question. He’s in pain, does it need a number? He absently hopes he’s not yelling.

[When your concussion improves, we’ll be able to run tests on your hearing.]

This time he does shrug, simply letting his eyes slip shut. They must have given him a fresh dose of pain meds.

\-----

There’s a ringing in his ears when the haze lifts next. He can’t tell if it’s the concussion or his ears or both. His tongue sticks to the roof of his mouth when he tries to speak, resulting in a wordless grunt. It catches Phil’s attention regardless. “Thirsty.”

Phil holds a styrofoam cup with a straw to his lips, holding up a hand as if to say ‘take it easy.’

He sips as much water as Phil lets him, wetting his lips when the straw is pulled away. The pain in his head has lessened enough that he can move a little without the world tilting on its axis. Phil’s lost his suit jacket and tie, the first two buttons of his shirt undone and his sleeves folded up to expose his forearms. It must be the same shirt he was wearing during the mission. He hopes Phil is taking the time to take care of himself.

He must have mumbled some of that, because Phil has this half fond, half guilty look. He levels what he hopes to be stern glare at the man. “Go wash up, take a nap. Get outta here for a while.” His voice feels hoarse, something about the way it grates in his throat.

Phil softly strokes his hair and kisses him, mouthing something he doesn’t catch.

“Promise I’ll still be here when you get back,” he says at the man’s back as he walks out. He’s pretty surprised his stubbornly protective mate listened. Alone, he settles back against his pillows, letting the alternating buzzing and silence surround him.

\-----

A hand on his shoulder startles him out of his doze. He smacks the hand away before he regains awareness of his surroundings. Seems he startled the nurse just as badly as she startled him. “Sorry,” he mumbles, rubbing at his face.

There’s a kind smile on her face as she gestures at the whiteboard.

[How are you feeling?]

He takes a moment to take stock of himself. His ribs and his wrist ache, but his head is improved. There’s a dull ache there as well, but it’s not debilitating like it had been. “Better?” He shrugs. She seems to twitch when he speaks. Had he been too loud? Probably. He bites back a groan.

She’s wiping the board clean and writing out a new message.

[Doctor ordered some tests for your hearing, if you’re feeling up to it.]

He nods. “Whenever you guys want.” The sooner they get their tests done, the sooner he can go home.

[We’ll come get you soon.]

She offers him the styrofoam cup and he takes it in his left hand, slurping water. When she’s gone, he checks out his range of motion in his limbs, except for his right wrist, and picks out the sore spots. Everything seems functional, at least. Baring his ears, that is. And isn’t that a familiar sensation he’s been trying his damnedest not to acknowledge.

The nurse returns with help and a wheelchair. He grimaces but obediently lets them help him into the thing and wheel him down the hall. The motion makes him a little dizzy but he keeps his trap shut.

He recognizes the setup in the room. A small, enclosed room with headphones separated by a window from a contraption controlling the sounds sent to the headphones. Basic hearing test.

[Testing level of hearing. When you hear the tone, press the button. Left for left, right for right, both for both.]

Clint nods, waving off the instructions. He remembers how this works.

They get him settled in, headphones in place.

[Ready?]

He flashes a brief thumbs up at them and turns his focus to his hearing. He’s certain they’ve started and the fact that he hasn’t heard anything yet has him gritting his teeth. After a few minutes of nothing, he makes out a tone through the ringing in his ears. He mashes the button in his right hand. The process continues. He catches a couple more tones, one in his left and another in his right, but it’s clear even to him that his hearing is severely impaired.

He can’t say he’s not experienced hearing loss after being near an explosion before but it still makes him uneasy.

They’re done with the test, shuffling about and he catches sight of Phil through the window, his face tight. His stomach flops. The horrible thought leaks into his mind: What if this isn’t temporary and Phil doesn’t want a deaf omega. He knows how big of a pain in the butt he can be hearing.

“Want to go back to my room, please,” he requests, his jaw tight. The nurses just stare at him so he simply starts wheeling the chair himself, out of the room and down the hall. His right wrist complains, but he ignores it in favor of escape.

The chair suddenly stops moving and he turns - ow ribs - to find Phil holding firm on the handles, leaning toward him. His lips are moving and he finds himself zeroing in on them. ‘... - going? Where - ..’ He turns his head away, shaking it. Phil comes around to kneel in front of him, one of his hands settling on his knee. Clint stares down at it until a hand beneath his chin redirects his attention to Phil’s face. ‘.... - know I love you, … t?’ The thumb resting on his knee strokes side to side thoughtlessly. Of course Phil would remember that he can read lips. It’s probably tucked somewhere in his file.

Clint wants to hide his face. It’s uncanny how Phil can always dig right to the root of what’s on his mind. Instead, he sighs, any fight in him evaporating as he nods. “Yeah, I know.”

Phil kisses his face, touching anywhere that seems safe. He jerks his head in the general direction of Clint’s room and pushes him down the hall. Nurses reappear when they enter, heck they’d probably been following them, but hell if Clint had any way of hearing them. They help him shuffle back to bed.

[Doctor’s reviewing results. He’ll be by later.]

A dose of pain meds, thankfully not as strong as the ones before; he’s not fond of meds making him pass out. This one just leaves him with a pleasant float-y sensation. Thankfully, Phil doesn’t seem determined to discuss anything more serious at the moment. Instead, he’s holding his hand and tracing soothing patterns over his arm, twisting and curling around his bandages. He happily lets himself float.


End file.
